


Mask Slip

by pawnofkings



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Carrying, Cute, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-12
Updated: 2020-08-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:49:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25857712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pawnofkings/pseuds/pawnofkings
Summary: After an away game against the Binghamton Bearcats, Neil is beyond exhausted. That, in combination with how safe he's starting to feel around his teammates, results in a slip of his mask: without realizing, his southwestern imitation fades and the Foxes (Andrew, especially) are pretty interested in what remains.--Or: Neil gets so tired that he forgets to hide his British accent, courtesy of his mother. Andrew is into it.
Relationships: Matt Boyd & Neil Josten, Neil Josten/Andrew Minyard
Comments: 24
Kudos: 636





	Mask Slip

**Author's Note:**

> I finished reading AFTG like the first of this month (August) and, after reading my own lifespan in fanfiction, I present to you: my very first attempt at Andreil. It's lowkey, but I hope you like it!

Neil spent the formative years of his life speaking to few people other than his mother. Nathan was one of them on certain unfortunate occasions, but revelled more in cutting his son into pieces than speaking to him. Lola spent hours with him each week, but he tried not to pay too much attention as she explained how to skin people, throw knives with precision, and various other unsettling lessons that Neil had repressed the majority of. The one person he spent any length of time speaking to, then, was Mary. They’d sit in his room, cross-legged and facing each other on his small bed, and she’d explain to him the inner workings of the universe, whatever piece of homework he was struggling with, or telling him fun stories and anecdotes to help him sleep after particularly gruelling afternoons with Lola. When he was really little, she would read to him from books with a lot of words he couldn’t understand - that, though, hadn’t mattered, because the simple, calming lull of her voice was his favorite part of the experience.

It was no surprise, then, that hers was the accent he came to speak in. Nathan hadn’t been a fan of it, but they spoke so rarely that all Neil had to do was put on a Baltimore accent whenever they interacted, and allow himself to fall back into his mother’s whenever they were alone. She had never stopped him, before they ran, and he imagined she cherished the sound of home, even coming from someone who didn’t share that home. But once they did go on the run, she became increasingly exasperated. He’d eventually learned to mask it, taught through bruises and scars to blend in and if he couldn’t then to keep his bloody mouth shut. (Often, she’d allow it when they were alone. Neil imagined she missed home even then.)

But it was still there. It was very much _his_ , preserved over time by his tendency to mutter to himself to stave off the loneliness. Perhaps the habit of speaking to himself was so hard to kick because it was the only sound of _her_ that he had left. 

It was a chore to put on whatever accent surrounded him, to sound good and neutral and inconspicuous. Not one part of him was allowed to attract attention - not the color of his hair nor his eyes (which wasn’t made easy by his genetics, which seemed to turn him into a beacon for the overly curious); not the way he dressed; not the way he walked or the amount he spoke or didn’t speak respectively or how often he chewed on his lip or how fast he could run. And near the top of the list of things to keep _unsuspicious_ was the way he spoke. So, despite the now-familiar awkwardness of a different accent layered over his own, the frustration when he’d slip up on a word (often not even pronouncing it in his mother’s accent, but one of the dozens he’d picked up on the run - what a jumbled mess his syntax was), and the struggle to stick to it no matter his emotional or physical state, he kept it up. Because it was, as his mother had painstakingly made sure to teach him, the only way to stay safe.

Except it wasn’t, not anymore. Neil Josten was now a real person in the eyes of the law, he was bound to stay where he was - not pretending to be anyone else - and he was increasingly beginning to feel _safe_. Around his teammates, if nothing else. And his brain had learned that lesson far sooner than his conscious mind, which resulted in the occasional, careless slip-up. A raised eyebrow or curious look would be enough to make him notice and amend it quickly.

It worked until it didn’t.

The _bzzzzzt_ ringing out around him was relief like nothing else. Breathless and panting, Neil fell to his knees, racquet clutched tightly in his hands - he wasn’t sure he’d be able to let go even if he tried. The world tilted on its axis and took several seconds to stabilize before he could see and take in his surroundings again.

In front of him, his mark stood and stared, eyes wide and glued to the goal which had lit up red just one or two seconds before the end of the match. Neil grimaced and rubbed his hip - perhaps his last-minute maneuver had been overdoing it just a little, but he couldn’t find it in himself to regret it. Andrew had only let the other team score twice - _twice_ , in two quarters, with strikers _that good_ , and the excitement curling in his stomach at the relentlessness had stoked something else in him. He wouldn’t allow Andrew’s efforts to go to waste. And perhaps he’d gone a bit too far in his attempt to honor those efforts but he also felt the elation at his _seven goals_ in _one single game_. The Bearcats had been destroyed: 16-6 read the scoreboard overhead and the heady feeling of victory was more rewarding than anything else.

Now there was just the problem of his blown-out legs. He _definitely_ wouldn’t be able to get up.

Perhaps he wouldn’t have to navigate that, though, he realized as hands pulled him up and into the air, and Matt’s ear-to-ear grin came into focus. His team had come to surround him, all cheering and whooping as loud as they could. Dan was doing a small victory dance in uncontrollable joy. Andrew, standing at the edge of the group, allowed a brief smirk for Neil’s eyes only, and Neil grinned back. Matt, catching this exchange, set Neil down - presumably to let him go to Andrew - but had to grab onto him again a second later after Neil’s legs buckled and he almost crashed to the floor again. 

“Idiot”, Andrew said. “We had a six-point lead at halftime and you still decided that was necessary?”

“Not necessary”, Neil denied. “But fun.”

“Look at them”, Allison said, amused smile on her lips. “They look so crushed.” And that they did; the Bearcats had gathered, hunched shoulders and defeated expressions all around.

“At least their legs work”, Andrew commented before heading toward the doors. The others followed, and Matt decided the reasonable course of action was to carry Neil bridal-style off the court. They shook the hands of the opposing players - Neil but not Matt, whose hands were occupied keeping him above ground - before leaving the court, right into the hands of a grinning Wymack.

“I can’t endorse you blowing your legs out for no good reason”, Wymack said, “but good work.” He put way more emphasis on the latter point than the former, so Neil smiled at him. He was, however, feeling the oncoming exhaustion; he’d been running on adrenaline and pure determination alone for the last quarter of the game and noticed absently that his hand had begun to shake as the high wore off. There was a pleasant but concerning cloudiness fogging up his mind and he would’ve struggled to get cleaned up after the game if Andrew hadn’t helped out (after waiting for everyone else to leave, of course. Only Nicky had been dumb enough to give them a knowing smirk before heading out).

“I think I’m gonna faint”, Neil warned, leaning his head back against the tiles of the shower stall. He was sitting on the floor, still incapable of using his legs, and Andrew crouched in front of him, running hands laden with shampoo through his hair. (It would’ve reminded him too much of post-Baltimore if they hadn’t made new, more positive memories of a similar nature after that incident.) The suddenly analytical look in Andrew’s eyes confused him, but he didn’t ask. He wasn’t sleepy-tired, but exhausted to the bone physically as his mind, though impeded, plowed onwards. “I can’t believe you only let two goals in. Two! That’s got to be a new record for you.”

Andrew took a second before replying. “Their strikers were terrible. I barely put in more effort than I usually do.” Neil knew for a fact that the Bearcats’ strikers were exceptional, and that only letting in two goals when playing two quarters was a rare feat when faced with them.

“I’m still proud of you”, Neil grinned, closing his eyes as Andrew pulled him under the stream. 

“Yeah, yeah, get on with it”, Andrew said, throwing him a towel.

Dry and dressed, there was only one more problem: Neil still couldn’t walk. Andrew sighed, rolled his eyes, and asked a “Yes or no?” with such ‘I’m done with you’ energy in his voice that he might as well have said that instead. Neil nodded, eyebrows furrowed, but quickly came to understand when Andrew placed one arm in the bend of his knees and another on his back, lifting him into the air like Matt had.

“This is new”, Neil commented, but went quiet (though with a small smile) when Andrew just glared at him and made for the exit, bags piled on Neil’s stomach. Neil wouldn’t confess to enjoying it, but he did, pressing his cheek to Andrew’s chest and holding on to the bags with his hands.

When they arrived at the bus outside the arena, long journey ahead of them to get back from New York, the others had already taken their seats and were arguing passionately about how to celebrate the major win. Neil didn’t imagine he’d be able to think clearly, let alone walk, for another 24 hours, but the others seemed to have plans starting the second they got back in the early hours of Saturday.

They took to staring when they saw Neil’s new mode of transportation, but very deliberately looked away which Neil was grateful for.

“Hey Neil, thoughts on a movie marathon tomorrow night?” Nicky asked, still somewhat distracted by the sight. A pleased smile curled his lips. “We’ll watch all the Exy movies out there. There’s this one where the coach reminds me of Coach Wymack.”

“Sounds good”, Neil agreed. “I don’t think I’ll be moving around much for a while.”

The silence that came upon the bus’ passengers just then was resounding. Neil only became more confused when every pair of eyes turned to stare at him - not the two of them anymore, but him alone. “What?” he asked. And then realized. “Oh.”

“Since when are you British?” Allison asked, eyes wide. 

“I’m not”, Neil said. “My mom was.”

“But you… What?” Matt seemed incapacitated in his confusion. 

Neil shrugged uncomfortably, trying to grasp at his southwestern accent again, the one he usually put on these days. “It happens when I’m tired, sometimes.”

“No, don’t stop”, Nicky pleaded. “Bring it back.”

Neil furrowed his eyebrows, but allowed his walls to fall just a little and let the mask slide off just a bit more. “I suppose I could.” 

“Could you get any more attractive? Damn”, Nicky commented.

Andrew’s responding growl was enough to shut him up for the moment (and made something in Neil’s stomach shift pleasantly), and Neil was quickly carried to the back of the bus and placed onto a seat. Andrew got into the seat behind his, watching as Neil used his arms to try to move into a comfortable resting position.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you what?”

“That I-” Neil gestured over himself, “sounded different. I didn’t realize.”

Andrew stared intently at him. “Why should I?”

Neil was about to say, ‘ _suddenly changing your accent is suspicious and attracts too much attention_ ’, when he realized that it didn’t matter anymore. And perhaps it was even for the best; now he wouldn’t have to worry about constantly concealing the way his mouth preferred to move. “I… Whatever.”

A voice came from the front of the bus once they got moving. Allison. “Hey Neil, what’d you think of the Bearcats’ defense?”

“They weren’t communicating as well as the last time we saw them,” Neil started, “probably because they got some new team members who haven’t been properly inducted yet. My mark eventually got distracted by the growing difference in scores and couldn’t play as well due to frustration, so it only got easier to get around him.”

Giggles and “damn”s came from the front half of the bus and Neil furrowed his eyebrows.

“They just wanted to hear your accent, dumbass”, Andrew muttered. Neil only got more confused. After a few seconds of this look, Andrew sighed, rolling his eyes like this was the most laborious thing he’d ever have to do. “They think it’s attractive. Most Americans are suckers for a British accent. Surely you know that?”

“Huh”, Neil replied. “Guess I didn’t. But wait-” Neil raised his eyebrows and let the mischief shine through in his eyes, “do _you_ find it attractive?”

“No”, Andrew denied.

“I guess I might as well hide it, then, for consistency’s sake”, Neil pondered, flowing back into southwestern. He had a small smirk on his mouth that Andrew wouldn’t be able to see unless he leaned over the back of Neil’s seat.

There was a brief pause. Neil stared up at the roof of the bus, allowing his legs to stretch out, feet sticking out into the aisle. He thought back to the highlights of the game, to Kevin’s impossible goal halfway in that seemed to rile their goalie so much that he became sloppy; to Andrew completely locking down the goal for the last quarter.

“Don’t”, Andrew eventually said. Neil’s smirk turned into a grin.


End file.
